Chapter 10 Midnight Threats and Broken Glass
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The rhythm of autumn mountain rain against a tin roof is usually the most soothing sound in Western North Carolina. It has a whispering cadence that invites you to pull on a cardigan, cup a mug of spiced cider, and lose yourself in an old novel.
Tonight, however, the rain sounded like a countdown.
It was past ten on Thursday evening. Tomorrow morning at eight sharp, the iron gates of Blackwood Manor were scheduled to swing open for the preview of the century.
Collectors, antique dealers, and curiosity-seekers would descend upon Black Walnut Cove to pore over Eleanor Vance’s sprawling estate.
And somewhere out in that sodden darkness, a killer was walking around with cold hands and sharp nerves.
I sat at the scarred workbench in the rear annex of Callahan in his left, an industrial flashlight sweeping the room.
His eyes found me kneeling amidst the broken glass.
The pry bar clattered onto a sawhorse. In three strides, Luke dropped to his knees in front of me, heedless of the glass. His large, rough hands hovered over my shoulders, terrified that touching me might reveal an injury.
"Maggie," he breathed, chest heaving as if he'd sprinted every inch from his yard down the block. "Are you hurt? Did you take glass? Talk to me."
"I'm whole, Luke. I'm okay," I said, though my voice betrayed me with a tremor. "I wasn't near the glass when it blew."
Luke let out a long breath, his hands settling firmly on my upper arms. His touch was warm and wonderfully steadying, though a slight tremor in his fingers betrayed how terrified he had been.
"I was shutting the yard gates," he said, hazel eyes searching my face. "I heard the smash from down the block. Sounded like an explosion. I thought... God, Maggie, I thought they were in here with you."
"They didn't come in," I said, gesturing toward the stone. "They threw this."
Luke followed my gaze, relief hardening into raw anger. His jaw clenched as he read the pasted letters.
"Cowardly bastard," Luke growled. He stood up, stepping between shards to inspect the broken door, shining his flashlight into the rain. "Did you see anything?"
"A silhouette in a dark oilskin coat," I told him, rising and leaning against the bench. "Heading toward Church Street. Running too fast to catch."
Before Luke could respond, a siren split the rain outside, winding down as a county cruiser swung into the alley. Its red and blue emergency strobes painted the wet brick walls in violent pulses.
A car door slammed. Heavy, deliberate strides splashed through the puddles outside.
Sheriff Frank Lawson stepped through the shattered doorway, ducking under the frame. At fifty-four, with broad shoulders, graying temples, and a rain-streaked Stetson, Frank carried the county's troubles on his back. His hand rested lightly near his holster.
"Luke. Maggie," Frank barked, sharp gaze cataloging the damage, the stone, and the brass fire iron. "Dispatched on broken glass. Nobody's bleeding, are they?"
"Nobody's bleeding, Frank," Luke said, voice hard as granite. "Somebody threw a boulder through Maggie's window with a death threat attached."
Lawson pulled latex gloves from his pocket and knelt beside the burlap bundle. The workshop was silent, save for the drumming rain on the tin roof.
Frank stood up slowly. The lines around his eyes were tight, and for a moment the sheriff vanished, replaced by the family friend who used to drink sweet tea on my porch with David.
"This is unacceptable, Maggie," Frank said quietly. "This isn't small-town mischief. This is a direct threat from a homicide suspect."
"I can read, Frank," I said, crossing my arms to suppress a chill. "It tells me Julian Croft's killer is panicking because we're opening Blackwood Manor tomorrow."
"Which is why you aren't opening that manor tomorrow," Frank replied with county authority.
"Under my authority in an active homicide investigation, I'm declaring Blackwood Manor an ongoing crime scene.
The preview is canceled. The sale is suspended indefinitely.
And you, Maggie Callahan, are getting into my cruiser right now for protective custody in Hendersonville. "
Luke stiffened beside me, fists clenching.
Every ounce of fear burned away, replaced by a surge of white-hot mountain fury.
"You listen to me, Frank Lawson," I said, stepping toe-to-toe with the sheriff. My voice dropped into the quiet tone that once stopped my teenage children in their tracks.
Frank blinked, instinctively leaning back.
"I've lived in Black Walnut Cove for twenty-eight years," I said, holding his gaze.
"I buried my husband in the churchyard on Ridge Road.
I raised two children through tuition and broken bones, survived menopause with my dignity intact, and stripped four hundred pieces of gouged pine with steel wool and stubbornness. "
"Maggie, be reasonable—"
"I built Callahan & Company from a rusty truck and a dream so I wouldn't spend my life weeping into an empty coffee cup," I pushed on, poking a gloved finger toward his badge.
"If I pack my bags because some coward threw a rock through my glass, I might as well nail the doors shut.
You cancel that preview, and the killer gets what they want.
Gregory Vance ties the land up in court, Vanessa slips away with stolen jewelry, and Julian Croft's murder goes cold. "
Frank stared at me, mouth slightly open.
"I am fifty-two years old, Frank Lawson," I finished, my voice steady as an oak beam. "I raised two teenagers, survived menopause, and refinished four hundred pieces of gouged pine. I am not running from a cowardly thug with a glue stick."
A long silence descended on the workshop.
Luke let out a low, muffled snort that he tried—and failed—to disguise as a cough.
Frank stared at me, his weathered face caught between exasperation and reluctant respect. Finally, he sighed through his mustache and rubbed his forehead.
"David always told me you were more obstinate than a team of blind mules," Frank muttered.
"David was an exceptionally perceptive man," I countered.
"You can't stay here alone, Maggie," Frank said. "I can't spare a deputy outside your door all night. We've got two men running perimeter at Blackwood Manor and one on desk duty."
"She won't be alone," Luke said.
The carpenter stepped up beside me, shoulder lightly brushing mine. His presence was an unshakeable wall.
Frank looked at him. "You're taking security detail, Sterling?"
"I’m staying right here," Luke answered evenly. "My shop is down the alley. I’ll bring my cot over, board this door with plywood before midnight, and Buster and I will sit in this annex with a twelve-gauge until sunrise."
I turned to Luke, heart giving an unexpected thump. "Luke, you have timber frames to notch for the mountain lodge."
"The lodge will be there Monday, Maggie," Luke said softly, looking down at me with an expression that had nothing to do with estate sales and everything to do with something deeper. "You think I could sleep knowing someone threw that through your window? Not a chance. You’re stuck with me."
Buster trotted over, pressed his head against Luke’s knee, and let out a contented, rumbling sigh, clearly endorsing the plan.
Frank looked at Luke, then at me, then at the dog. The ghost of a knowing grin touched his mouth before he masked it behind his professional scowl.
"Alright," Frank said, carefully sealing the river stone and note into an evidence bag. "Sterling stays. But front and back deadbolts stay locked, Maggie. Any noise, any shadow, you hit dispatch on your landline. You do not play vigilante with a fire iron."
"Agreed," I said.
"I'll have the patrol car circle the block every thirty minutes," Frank added, seating his Stetson back on his head. "Get some rest, Maggie. Tomorrow will test all of us."
With a final nod, Frank stepped into the rain and pulled the door shut. The flashing strobes drifted away down the alley, leaving the workshop quiet.
The storm seemed distant now, muted behind the steady warmth of the room.
"Well," I said, clearing my throat to break the sudden intimacy of the silence. "I suppose I should find a broom."
"You sit down on that stool, Maggie Callahan," Luke said, heading for the push broom. "You've had enough excitement for one night. I'll sweep the glass, cut the board, and secure the frame. You drink some water."
"Luke, I can sweep—"
"Sit," he commanded gently, pointing the broom handle at my drafting stool with that warm, slow mountain smile that made my knees feel traitorously weak. "Don't make me sic your dog on you."
A genuine laugh escaped me, brushing away the last cobwebs of fear. I climbed onto the stool, curling my clogs around the wooden rungs, and rested my chin in my hands.
"Fine," I conceded. "On one condition."
Luke paused, leaning his weight against the broom handle, hazel eyes gleaming with good humor. "Name it."
"Birdie brought half a Dutch apple pie from the bakery this morning. It's in the breakroom fridge. If you're spending the night on my workshop floor, you're having pie with me first."
Luke's smile broadened, crinkling his eyes with reassuring warmth.
"Maggie," he said softly, "you've got yourself a deal. Go cut the pie. I've got the watch."